


Anciente Orders

by Thorntons



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntons/pseuds/Thorntons
Summary: A harmless group of Druids capture the interest of the Folly, as they venture into dangerous territory.





	Anciente Orders

****

Chapter 1 : The Vampyr of Highgate

I'd thought of skipping breakfast altogether, but I needed to touch base on the new case so I braved some toast and coffee. Surely even Molly couldn't put her twist on that? I'd soon sussed out that Nightingale's strategically propped up copy of the Telegraph at breakfast allowed him to slip the dodgier offerings off his plate to Toby's less discerning palate without offending Molly. Even Nightingale acknowledged Toby had his uses at times; a man could only take so much.

I'd no idea why Nightingale had his eye on some bloke called Gerald Greenaway, the founder of the Crouch End Grove of Druids. It all seemed pretty harmless stuff to me, but you'd have thought I'd have known better by now than to dismiss them as a bunch of bored middle-class tree huggers.

With a half a mind to get a rise out of Nightingale, I chanced. "So why are we investigating a bunch of cranks whose only crime is to pontificate ad nauseam? Have all the villains absconded to Marbella for Easter?"

I was rewarded by a disapproving look over the top of his paper. "There's more to Druidry than you imagine Peter. Historically Druids were an oasis of wisdom, healers, poets, astronomers and magicians. Julius Caesar was particularly fascinated by their belief that the soul doesn't die and passes from one body to another."

I wondered whose soul had passed into Nightingale - perhaps he was the spiritual descendant of the original Isaac. After all Nightingale was revered by his fellow practitioners; his exploits at Ettesburg were legendary.

Ten minutes on Google had unearthed the usual mix of fact and fiction about Druidry, so I dangled a speculative line to see if he would bite. "So, is it true Boudicca was a Druid?"

"Possibly, she came from a line of Banduri." Nightingale responded noncommittally.

"Winston Churchill?" I chanced, expecting to be shot down with a withering look.

Nightingale's response surprised me. "Although it was largely a fraternal association, it's well known that Churchill dabbled with both Freemasonry and Druidry. He was a member of the Albion Lodge of the Anciente Order of Druids of Oxford."

Now, normally the frolics of the high and mighty weren't something that bothered a humble PC, but in the course of researching the Little Crocodiles I'd learned that secret societies still survived, even if their motives were less esoteric than old Winnies. Still, if some toffs in penguin suits wanted to ponce around with their teddy bears it was no skin off my nose.

Nightingale was surprisingly forthcoming on the subject. "It was rumoured Winston dabbled with the occult to try and second guess Goering's plans. I doubt they ever came up with anything that old fashioned logic couldn't explain. However, it planted the seed of doubt in the enemy's mind that Winston had psychic powers."

Nightingale spoke with some authority and I wondered what his role had been at the time.

"So, why didn't they use magic for real if it could swing the outcome?" I knew I'd ventured on to dodgy territory when Nightingale's face clouded over.

"There are some things that should only be used when all hope fails. No matter how subtle the wizard, he's not immune to basic mechanics, and pitting the very best against each other will inevitably end in disaster. Magic should never be thought of as a quick fix for failed diplomacy." Nightingale looked pensive as he picked up his Telegraph again. It was clear this subject was closed.

I didn't hang around. I wanted to find out more about the Crouch End Druids, and besides if I hung around any longer Nightingale was sure to remember that Latin translation I still owed him. Worse still, he'd been threatening me with a new grimoire with the catchy little title Arbatel de Magia Veterum.

Although Crouch End wasn't far from my old stomping grounds in Kentish Town, its elegant Victorian villas with their Flemish bonds and decorative weatherboards were a world apart from the utilitarian block of council flats that I grew up in.

Last time I'd been there was to watch Dad play a gig at the Crossover Jazz Rooms, and I still remembered it fondly. For it was there I lost my heart to a Jamaican sax player the sultry Kendra Gayle, who seduced me with her skanky fusion of Jazz and Ska. It even met with my Dad's approval, and for someone who'd seen Sonny Rollins perform live that was high praise.

Things were hunky dory after the first date, but then someone tipped off Kendra that I was a rookie policeman and her interest faded overnight. It wasn't good for her street cred to consort with the fuzz.

Although I'd learned to turn a blind eye to the glassy eyed looks of the backing musicians, the oily smell of skunk hung in the air. People at the venue eyed me warily as they slipped outside for a spliff. Even off duty, in their eyes I was still a cop. No wonder my Dad told me to keep it under my hat at times.

Anyhow, enough of that, back to Crouch End. People abandoned their draughty old Victorian villas with the advent of the post war boom in council housing. The landlords moved in, seizing the opportunity to grab a bargain while the prices were rock bottom. They broke down the neglected old buildings into smaller units, which they would let out to students, budding thespians and other undesirables.

With the gentrification of the area in the 1980s, the once unloved houses became the new des res and the landlords made a killing. Those families that sat it out in their homes found their once humble abode was now worth a pretty packet.

Gerald Greenaway was one such man, the only son of the late Fran and Brian Greenaway, he lived a mortgage free life in his ancestral lodgings in a little backwater just off Shepherds Hill. It was a rather shabby terrace villa in need of a lick of paint. It stood out from the immaculately turned out properties on either side. The posters in the windows smacked of someone who'd never quite grown out of their student habits.

Without the financial burdens the rest of us had to live with, Gerald was a free spirit who could afford to embrace every fashionable cause. A minor celebrity in the world of psychic phenomena, Gerald could always be relied on for his expert opinion whenever a budding reporter was looking for a good by-line.

In his largely uneventful life the formation of the Crouch End grove of Druids was one of the few things that Gerald had done of note. After a flirtation with Buddhism in the 70s Gerald had finally found his spiritual home in Druidry. Together with his sidekick Bill Snodgrass, he convened monthly meetings in the now redundant snug of his local pub the Oddfellows Arms. By all accounts they were fairly shambolic meetings lubricated by real ale and cider, which culminated in the occasional foray into Highgate Woods in the summer months.

Guleed and me had camped out in the Oddfellows, ignoring the impatient glare of the landlord as I made my half of Hop and Stagger Ale last a good hour. I'd read some of Gerald's leaflets, and he could waffle for England about New Age philosophies. It seemed that Gerald wasn't a man in tune with the modern world, he still rode a bicycle and didn't possess a mobile phone - though I could see he wasn't averse to borrowing Bill's phone when it suited him.

We'd picked up on some tension with a rival group in Muswell Hill. It's leader Rowan Hawthorne, a renegade from the Crouch End Druids, had tired of Gerald's autocratic manner and refusal to move with the times. The Muswell Hill Druids sported a cool website and had a buzzing social calendar based around the eightfold wheel of the Druid's calendar. It wasn't long before some of the younger members of the Crouch End grove defected, and Gerald's dwindling group of followers now comprised a bunch of old timers.

Gerald and Snodgrass were deep in conversation discussing how to turn things around, and with the spring equinox approaching it was clear they had something special planned.

After they'd left we mingled with the punters in the bar trying to tease out some juicy gossip about the Druids. The jury was out - some said they were a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but most thought they were harmless. The landlord was the soul of discretion - with dwindling receipts he could hardly be fussy about his clientele, and had no intention of alienating any group that kept the tills turning.

For all her no-nonsense approach, Guleed was developing a fascination in the world of magic. It wasn't something I wanted to encourage after what happened with Lesley, but it didn't do any harm for her to know a bit more about what we were dealing with. With me doing the driving, she was at a loose end and indulged in some playful ribbing. "So, you and Nightingale d'you ever dress up and dance around poles?"

I knew she was teasing but responded with a straight face. "Only on high days and holidays."

"You should see some of the stuff on this Muswell Hill website, apparently many of the old pagan rites have been adopted by the Christian church. Did you know Easter derives from oestrus and the awakening of fertility?" She pursed her lips in surprise as she scrolled down her smartphone.

"You're beginning to sound like Nightingale. You'll be spouting Latin next." I was only half listening as my stomach started rumbling, and I was wondering where we could stop and pick up some food. The Nandos in Islington was closing soon, so I put my foot down ignoring Guleed's pointed looks at the speedometer.

Our next visit to the Oddfellows was on the night of the spring Equinox. We'd been nursing some coffees and a plate of curled up sandwiches since late afternoon. The Druids convened just before six, they conferred briefly while they knocked back a quick half, and then beat a hasty retreat.

A brisk walk down Shepherds Hill left some of the older members huffing and puffing, Gerald was both taller and leaner than most of his followers and struck a good pace. We followed at a distance keeping well out of sight. Guleed was keeping track of the route on her phone app. We'd assumed they'd head over to Highgate Woods for a bit of tree hugging, but Gerald had other plans. He struck out down Archway Road and then veered off in the direction of what seemed like a bog standard municipal park.

Guleed was puffing a bit herself by now, struggling to keep up with the pace with her shorter legs. "They're going off their manor a bit. Why chose a public park to commune with nature?"

"Let me see your phone." It didn't make sense. I checked the map out and saw that Waterlow Park adjoined Highgate Cemetery, the resting place of the great and good. Death was the great equaliser when luminaries like Karl Marx and Michael Faraday could commune with the likes of Douglas Adams and George Michael.

Now call me superstitious, but the idea of hanging around Highgate Cemetery after dark wasn't my idea of fun. I knew of the gothic tombs and grand mausoleums from magazines, and the catacombs and crypts were well known to any self-respecting fan of horror flicks. Although I knew it was complete tosh, I couldn't discount the image of Count Dracula rising from his crypt In Taste the Blood of Dracula.

I still clung on to the hope that they'd find a maypole to dance round to welcome in the season of fertility. Although frankly the thought of a bunch of overweight, middle aged hippies taking their clothes off to be at one with nature was almost as off putting. Fortunately, that thought was soon dispelled when they headed off toward the west gate.

I pulled out my phone and called Nightingale. "Anything I should know about Highgate cemetery?"

There was a pregnant pause as Nightingale processed the information. "Yes, keep well away from it. An ancient ley-line originates in the circle of tombs known as the circle of Lebanon - it crosses over some historic sites ending in the old Roman settlement in Highgate Wood. The ley-lines transmit psychic energy allowing spirits to materialise when the conditions are right."

"It looks like Greenaway's group is heading there." I went straight to the point..

"Just try and keep them out of trouble. I'll be there in about half an hour." I could tell from Nightingale's clipped tone that he was worried. "Whatever you do Peter, do not engage with anything you see. Legend has it that the spirit of a medieval nobleman from Romania, a practitioner of the dark arts, appears at times. Some call him the Vampyr of Highgate, but he's more likely a revenant and is very dangerous."

I guessed Nightingale knew more than he was letting on and was glad that he was on his way.

When Gerald's sidekick Snodgrass took out his lockpicks and opened the gate to the west cemetery my worst fears were confirmed. I made a mental note to check Snodgrass out later - he'd been mighty handy with those lockpicks.

Guleed and me slipped in through the partially closed gates and followed the voices through the imposing archway that led to the Egyptian Avenue. It was impossible not to be affected by the doom-laden atmosphere of the place as dusk fell. Every noise seemed amplified as we crept down the narrow passage known as the Street of the Dead, with its the close packed family vaults and tombs. We didn't have time to dwell on the architectural features or the inhabitants interred within, but a quick glance round made me think a return visit at a less witching hour would be worthwhile.

A rat scurried across the path brushing against Guleed's leg eliciting an involuntary squeak from her. She silently mouthed sorry, but I could tell she was on edge. We both were.

The distant footsteps stopped, and we slowly edged forward and caught sight of the men and women disappearing into the catacombs to get changed. They emerged a few minutes later in long loose white gowns and sandals, with their heads covered by something resembling a nun's habit.

Guleed nudged me. "I suppose we should be grateful they left the pointy hats at home."

"I don't think this lot would hurt a fly, but they may be about to bite off more than they can chew." I quickly cased our surroundings checking for potential escape routes. I caught the glint of watchful eyes in the undergrowth that engulfed the neo gothic headstones in the distance. Fortunately, it was nothing more sinister than the local foxes wondering who was out at this time of night.

Guleed kept wafting away the night insects attracted by our presence - she was clearly more at home in the concrete jungle than in the natural world.

"All we need now is for Dracula to turn up." She hissed as the bats came out in force dancing silently above our heads, swooping down to feed off the midges that pervaded the dank air of the cemetery.

"Be careful what you wish for." There was something about the place that set the hairs on the back of my neck on end - there was more than a hint of menace. I feared the Druids were rushing in where angels feared to tread.

We crept forward once Gerald's followers had somehow ascended to the circle of Lebanon. They were a motley group, a variety of shapes and sizes, but all were deadly serious about their rituals. The group formed a circle around the magnificent cedar of Lebanon. They chanted some ancient mantra as they held hands and started to circle the tree.

They stopped and Gerald stepped forward. "Sacred Ones, dryads and devas, spirits of the departed and the ancient tree that stands before us, join with us in witnessing the time of balance, the turning of the seasons, as we welcome in Alban Eilir and the awakening of new life. We give our energy to this circle, communing with the spirits of nature to create a sanctuary of peace and love. We honour the circle of life for without death there can be no life."

Gerald looked up to the skies and held his staff aloft calling on all his reserves as he invoked the spirits to join them. "Let us gather the spirits together as one voice in this sacred place so none may enter unless in peace." Then he solemnly tapped his staff on the ground three times; a dull echo resonated in the catacombs below sending his message out.

The air turned preternaturally cold as the sun set below the horizon and the quiet of night descended. A frost suddenly appeared on the headstone we were hiding behind and a chill crept into our bones. Guleed shivered at the sudden drop of temperature, she cast a nervous look at me guessing the abrupt change was portentous.

In a place like this I had to screen out the white noise of the vestigia that lingered everywhere. But there was no mistaking the faint fishy smell that triggered my senses alerting me to the dark shadow that materialised from nowhere.

It slowly took on the form of a tall cloaked figure that must have topped 7 ft with its hat by time it emerged from the gloom. It stopped right by us, inclined its head in our direction and sniffed the air like some feral creature. Guleed had kept out of sight, but it was always best to know your enemy so I took a good look at it. Remnants of flesh hung from the skull in ribbons, all distinguishing features had long since gone and all that remained were a pair of luminous green eyes. I'd never encountered anything like that aura of pure malevolence before - I had no doubt it intended to wreak havoc before the night was out.

It clearly considered us small fry, and it shuffled on towards the Druids who had unwittingly summoned him. Gerald had clocked it and was conferring with Snodgrass, oddly they seemed angry more than scared. Gerald walked to the edge of the circle with his followers lined up behind him like angry villagers. "You've had your joke now Hawthorne. I'll report you to the Druid's council for this, desecrating our scared ceremony. Now take off that silly costume and go away."

"What the hell is he doing?" Guleed hissed.

Gerald had seriously misread the situation, this wasn't some local turf war.

The Vampyr threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling shriek that reverberated round the cemetery. Adornments on the older mausoleums started to keel over as the supporting stones yielded to sonic shock. Some of the Druids reeled back overwhelmed by the presence of evil. Gerald was a stubborn bugger and unwilling to lose face, though the colour had drained from his face.

I had to do something but what? I conjured up a werelight and floated it over Gerald casting him in white light in a misguided attempt to confer pseudo mystic powers on him. His followers gasped in amazement, truly believing Gerald had been conferred with divine powers as the werelight hovered over his staff.

A growl emanated from the cloaked figure as it drew itself up to take in a deep breath, and like the big bad wolf it blew the werelight away.

"Aestus lux." I murmured, and I concentrated my efforts on positioning another werelight higher than before. The light intensified on Gerald making him look quite magnificent in his ceremonial white gowns.

By now believing the spirits were with him, and not having the slightest idea that his fate rested with some rookie wizard hailing from Kentish town, Gerald grandly drew himself up and brandished his staff at the Vampyr. "Be gone evil spirit. Return to whence you came."

There was no time to do anything other than duck taking Guleed with me. The psychic ectoplasm was about to hit the fan.

Without warning the Vampyr tapped into the psychic energy of the ley-lines and sent out a zinger that blasted into the raised parapet around the circle, destroying the stonework and sending a shower of dust and debris in our direction.

The Druids were sitting ducks on top of the circle; some took shelter behind the ancient cedar while others, including Gerald, stood rooted to the ground transfixed with fear. The best I could hope for was some diversionary tactic to give them a chance to escape. I was no match for this spirit, and just had to hope Guleed and me could somehow distract it from its purpose.

The fishy smell intensified as the Vampyr sent another blast of breath that extinguished the second werelight. The Druids who'd been basking in the light were now floundering in the dark, their eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden loss of light..

Regardless what Nightingale said, I had to do something. "I hope you're not attached to that phone?" I whispered.

Guleed eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"You might need a new one after this. I'm sure Seawoll will cough up for one." I set it on full volume and auto answer, then cocked my head toward a particularly tasteless baroque tomb just behind the Vampyr. I didn't need to spell it out, Guleed knew what to do.

I lobbed a skinny grenade over to the memorials beyond the Vampyr, it went off with a fizz when it hit the ground sending up a flare of light to draw attention away from Guleed. Once I saw her scurrying back to safety, I set off a series of grenades around the cemetery, all the while keeping out of sight. I muttered Vox Imperante before dialling into her phone using one of my spare burner phones. I evoked the spirit of Arthur Brown. "I am the God of Hellfire, and I bring you Fire! I'll take you to burn." A rasping deep commanding voice quite unlike my own echoed out..

Guleed stopped dead in her tracks, screwed her nose up in her best WTF look before silently mouthing "Seriously Peter, is that the best you can do?"

I shrugged, it was all I could think of in the heat of the moment, but it had the desired effect with the light of the phone catching the Vampyr's eye when he jerked his head round in response to the noise. I wasn't sure whether he understood the words or was operating on a different plane governed by primeval instincts.

An ominous growl was followed by a bolt of energy that sent Guleed's phone into terminal meltdown. I tried to keep him distracted by lobbing grenades into the undergrowth around him creating a choreographed display of flashes and bangs, but he just shrugged off the threat and turned his attention back to the hapless Druids. All I'd done is piss him off, and there's nothing worse than an angry ghoul.

I'd avoided direct conflict hoping common sense would prevail, and that the Druids would have scarpered during the diversion. Much to my annoyance they were a gormless bunch, and instead of dispersing when they had the chance they seemed transfixed by proceedings.

Reluctantly I accepted I had to try and draw out his fire power by dodging between the stones and hoping the shield I'd cast offered some protection, allowing Guleed to usher the Druids to safety.

I was just about to offer myself up as target practice, when a fire ball came hurtling in from behind me falling just short of the Vampyr before bouncing up to clean bowl him.

Nightingale had announced his arrival with a perfectly delivered googly. "Um, that should do the trick – pesky blighters these Vampyrs."

He glanced over and muttered reproachfully. "Really Peter, did you have to be so theatrical?"

I bit my tongue, that was rich coming from the God of Hellfire.

Guleed scrambled to her feet, and we watched the Vampyr cast off its burning clothes and whoosh back into the darkness, shrieking and cursing as it faded away.

Nightingale looked thoughtfully after it. "I really must talk to the Archbishop about exorcism - with all that pent up venom the next outing could very well end in tragedy."

I must have looked a bit surprised.

"The church does it all the time, of course it's not something they like to make public, but they have people who specialise in spirits. There are stranger things in heaven and earth than you could possibly imagine Peter."

I gave a nod in Gerald's direction. "Someone's got to tell him before he gets into more trouble."

"I'll have a word with the Arch-Druid, he'll put him right." Nightingale apparently had connections everywhere.

Gerald was shaking his head in bewilderment, unsure exactly what had happened. His followers looked at him with new found respect believing he had exorcised evil with his own hand.

Guleed looked over to the hapless Druids. "How the hell do we write this one up? I suppose a night in the cells for desecration of a sacred place isn't on the cards?"

Nightingale smiled benevolently. "Tempting, but discretion is sometimes the better part of valour Sahra. Besides we don't want to be here when the press arrives. After all, we don't want to be known as the Ghostbusters do we?"

Guleed grinned at me, she'd be the only ghostbuster in a Hijab. 

For all Nightingale's attempts to play things down, Gerald's antics had become the stuff of legends in the tabloid press, reinforcing his reputation as one of the most powerful Druids in the land.

The Arch-Druid was revelling in the publicity generated, and with the funds flowing into their coffers he was reluctant to damp down speculation, although he promised to have a quiet word with Gerald at some stage.

Much to Nightingale's disgust even the Telegraph succumbed to the hype. A feature on New Age Philosophies pictured Gerald on a daytime talk show emerging from a sea of dry ice to the accompaniment of Whiter Shade of Pale.

"I'm afraid we've created a monster Peter." Nightingale shook his head ruefully, knowing this genie could not be put back in the bottle.

In the months that followed an upsurge in New Age thinking elevated Gerald to cult status. We kept a close eye on anything out of the ordinary, suspecting this would come back to bite us at some stage.


End file.
